The Favor
by The Sylver Lining
Summary: Fenris loses something very important. He hasn't gotten everything figured out yet, but Hawke will be there when he's ready. Male!Mage!Hawke/Fenris, a completed one-shot. Bittersweet.


**A/N: **For anyone who hasn't romanced Fenris, after the first night you spend with him, he wears a red strip of cloth around his wrist, which Word of God says is Hawke's favor to him. He wears this for _three years_. Even though he can't take their relationship any deeper and is so damn haunted and messed-up in the head, and the memories are too much for him to take… he still wears it. That's why Fenris is my favorite romance. He makes you work, and wait, but he's worth it, and he shows you how much it means.

# # #

Sometimes, Fenris didn't mind losing who he was.

Not all of him, of course. His identity, his free-working mind was a prize hard-won through years of struggle and doubt and blood. His concept of self, his consciousness, his soul, so to speak, was on a pedestal he would die before allowing to fall.

But sometimes, he let himself slip away. When his sword blade snapped through the air like a whip, when the world became a whirling-dervish frenzy of motion and blood, when the corners of his vision began to blur and _he_ began to blur, his physical outlines losing touch with reality, that's when things got messy. When his skin began to burn (and it burned, every time), when the sick blue light lit him up like a signal flare - whatever evolved and sentient being he was, took a walk off a short pier.

And out came the wolf.

And when it smelled blood, even it lost its head. Blood willingly shed, from slashed wrists and opened veins, all in the name of unnatural power, frightening, destructive forces that created nothing good, and decimated everything in its path. He fell into a madness as dizzying as a blood mage's fervor, and the only thing he could see or smell or taste was their dying, burning flesh -

"Fenris!"

They wanted blood? He would _give them_ blood. He would give them gallons of the stuff, and still nothing would quench his thirst, nothing would satsify the hunger-crazed wolf, he would strike them all down and not stop striking, not until every single abomination was -

"_Fenris!_ It's over-"

"They should burn! They should all burn!"

"Stop it! Look." That voice cut through the red haze like a blade through sinew. He didn't want to hear it, he didn't want to be brought back to reality, but hearing it always pulled him back to himself.

"They _are_ burning." Hawke's voice softened, but came from closer by. "It's over."

Fenris' eyes followed the path of Hawke's finger, and he turned in a slow rotation, taking in the carnage in 360 degrees. The alley was scorched, huge blackened plumes staining the stone and concrete, echoes of the fireballs that had exploded across the grimy surface moments before. And spattered across the ash was blood. Bright and fresh, dark and dried to a crisp by the searing heat; he'd never cease to be amazed by the different shades, how it could change. The only time blood changed was when it was spilled.

"You'd think by now they'd have learned not to mess with us," Varric smirked, rubbing a bloodstain off Bianca's gleaming finish. "It's unhealthy."

"Is it me," Merrill's voice was tight, still tense from the adrenaline rush. "Or are there more of them lately? Mean people?"

Hawke paused. It always caught him a little off-guard when Merrill noticed something not having to do with butterflies or kittens - especially so immediate, and with such ominous implications.

"This part of Darktown is always unsavory," he said carefully, replacing his staff in its holster across his back. "But these were no ordinary thugs. They were waiting for us."

Fenris was only half-listening. The alley fight was over, but he couldn't get himself back under control. The rage still pounded through his veins and his heart pounded, the rushing in his ears wouldn't stop, he could barely think or catch his breath. Something was wrong -

No, something was _missing-_

With a noise like a strangled snarl, Fenris pounced on one of the dead blood mages. His greatsword droped from his hand, forgotten, and clattered to the ground; Fenris didn't hear, he was turning the corpse over and clawing at its pockets.

"Well, finally giving a damn about the spoils, eh, Elf?" Varric raised an eyebrow. "Good for you, prouda-"

"No!" Fenris growled, but the hard edge was from something bordering on panic, not aggression. He abandoned the body, and started searching the nearby street, checking holes and grates."It's gone!"

"What are you looking for?" Merrill chirped, bright-eyed at the prospect of some exciting new game.

"Nothing!" Fenris snarled, not looking up from his frantic searching.

"Oh, really? What does the nothing look like? I'll help you find it. But how will we know when we've found it? All nothing looks the same to me."

"I said _drop it,_ witch!"

"But I haven't got any-"

"Hey, there, Daisy!" Varric appeared at her elbow, gently steering her away from the seething Fenris. "Thought I saw a vendor back over this way, and the stuff smelled almost acceptable! Whaddaya say to a nice rat-on-a-stick? Darktown specialty, I hear."

"Ooh, yes!" Merrill happily took hold of her dwarven friend's arm. "I know it's odd, but they really _are_ good! And always with such interesting spices and crunchy bits stuck in. I'm not sure they're all rats... And maybe you could sing me more of that pretty little song? How did it go...?"

Varric's laugh carried all the way back even as he and Merrill turned a corner. "Day-see, Day-see, give me your answer, doooo..."

Fenris didn't notice they were gone. He didn't comprehend anything except the desperate need to find it, get it back, it could not be left to be trampled into Darktown's filth. It was precious, it was _his,_ it belonged with-

"Fenris."

"_What?" _He whirled around, teeth bared in a grimace -

And there was Hawke, holding out something small in his armored hand.

Fenris froze, face going slack and losing its awful tension. His mouth hung open and eyes went round and wide, a stark contrast to his near-feral battlefield glare. With a shaking breath, he took a slow step toward Hawke and the little bit of red fabric.

"It's been nearly three years since that night," The apostate's voice was steady, gentle, a grounding anchor in the storm. "I've thought about it every day. And so, I believe, have you."

Fenris didn't answer; the words wouldn't come. All he could do was keep moving forward on unsteady feet, eyes fixed on the red cloth blowing in a cold, oily breeze. And beyond it a red stripe across a smoke-stained face. Amber eyes, warm and constant. He wasn't within reach yet, but Fenris reached out a hand anyway.

Hawke stepped forward, meeting him halfway. Then he stopped, looking at the outstretched hand with something like the ghost of a smile. He didn't place the length of cloth into that hand - instead, he took hold of both ends of the fabric, and looped it around Fenris' metal-clad wrist.

"I tied this here once," Hawke murmured, forming the half-knot and pulling both ends tight. "I'm glad to do it again... as you've done every day since. That kind of devotion doesn't go unnoticed, Fenris. All the more precious now because this time, it's your choice. May I borrow your finger?"

The sudden, oddly conversational question caught Fenris off-guard and he looked up, surprised - then slowly placed his index finger on the half-knot, holding it taut while Hawke contiued the details.

"Every day you've worn this, but you have no obligation. You are not tied to me, Fenris, as this need not be tied to your wrist."

"As you say," Fenris rumbled, low and - what? Cautious? Shy? "The choice is mine."

"And you know," Hawke continued gently. His fingers finished the intricate knot, but did not lift from Fenris' gauntlet and hand. "That neither do you need to wear it in silence, never allowing yourself its rewards. It's a gift, Fenris, not a burden. A freedom, never a restraint."

"I know," Fenris said, barely above a whisper. "But I... Hawke, I cannot..."

"You don't need to answer now, or decide today." Hawke reassured, when Fenris trailed off. "Just know... that every day of these three years you've worn this favor, I've been glad to see it there. And I hope... to still see it there tomorrow."

Hawke stayed with his hands on Fenris' for a moment, then moved way; Fenris only realized then that he himself had been holding on tightly as well.

"Now, let's go." Hawke turned. "I trust Varric to keep his little Daisy out of trouble, but I'd still rather not leave them alone down here." Hawke's speech brightened, his step brisk, leaving Fenris still half-stunned with his head spinning. Then he stopped and looked back, softening. "Take a moment, if you wish. We'll wait for you. And Fenris... I'll still be here."

He strode out of the secluded alley and into the slightly more lively Darktown slums.

Fenris stod there for a few long breaths; as it turned out, he did indeed need a moment. He ran his fingers over the worn but unfaded red fabric now tied securely around his wrist, and breathed deep. Eventually he came back to himself, coming out of a wholly different reverie than the frenzy of just minutes before. He slowly surfaced back into the present, and made himself look away from the red at his wrist.

Then, as he always did, Fenris turned and followed Hawke.


End file.
